


Bound Until Death

by kireteiru



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, Complete, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 02:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14606922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: Soulmates make everything simpler, yet more complicated.





	1. Pieces of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> can't stop won't stop
> 
> [my miraak](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136234383@N06/22036628551) but with longer hair

He was one of the unlucky ones.

The text on his arm was not only black, but it was also in a script no one could read. Adults looked on with sympathy and pity, and one of those was worse than the other. The other children mocked him and called him names, saying that the gods gave him a monster, a demon, a beast from another world for a soulmate and they were dead now because of him. They laughed at him for years.

They stopped laughing when he accidentally devoured a dragon’s soul when it died in combat in front of him.

They stopped laughing when more dragons came and named him _Dovahkiin_ , and took him away for training.

They stopped laughing when he came back with a mask and a new name.

Miraak.

* * *

Twenty-one dragons.

He’d absorbed the souls of twenty-one dragons, bent the wills of dozens more, but it wasn’t enough. He’d been on his knees before his temple, surrounded by the faintly smoking skeletons of the dragons he’d devoured, when Vahlok came.

Miraak had known from the beginning that Vahlok wasn’t like the other Dragon Priests of Solstheim. Devoted to the Cult to the point of fanaticism, zealotry, he followed every order he was given by the dragons and bent over backwards to accommodate them, even to the detriment of the people he ruled. Zahkriisos, Dukaan, even Ahzidal were nearly treasonous in comparison.

So it came as no surprise to him that the dragons sent Vahlok to deal the final blow, too proud to do it themselves (too scared of _Bend Will_ ).

Miraak forced himself to his feet; if this was how he was going to die, he would not do it on his knees.

But then.

Then.

He felt the unfortunately familiar chill, smelled wet decay, saw deep green eldritch tentacles unfurl around him, and Mundus blurred away around him.

It would be a long time before he saw it again.

* * *

The damp cold of Apocrypha seeped down into his bones, stealing away warmth and life until he was almost as empty as the rest of the realm. The tiniest sliver of hope kept him going, hope in the form of the name on his arm. As time passed (and passed, and _passed_ ), the languages of the books that appeared in Apocrypha started to change, moving inch by painful inch towards the script on his arm, always hidden from the ever-watching eyes of Hermaeus Mora.

He kept reading and training and waiting, wandering the endless halls of the Oblivion Realm, occasionally talking to the rare person he encountered in the stacks before they inevitably became a Seeker. He kept waiting when he encountered _dragons_ in Apocrypha, much to his surprise, and quickly bent their wills to his own. He kept waiting when he finally know the name on his arm.

He kept waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

But then.

Then.

Finally (finally, finally, _finally_ ), almost four thousand years to the day since he entered Apocrypha, his arm tingled, then burned like it was on fire, driving away the bitter cold.

And then he began to plot in earnest.

* * *

Then he received word that Alduin had returned, and a Dragonborn with him.

Of _course_.

He gave strict orders to his new followers, to avoid drawing either’s attention. He didn’t want them to know about him (or in Alduin’s case, that he was still alive) until there was nothing they could do to stop him. He _would_ escape Hermaeus Mora, and he _would_ find his soulmate, and they _would_ defeat Alduin – together, because he refused to accept that his soulmate would be anything less than his perfect match, his one and _only_ equal.

And then they would bring order to the chaotic world.

* * *

And then the Dragonborn came.

Miraak had her sent back with barely a thought. He was so close to freedom that there were times he swore he could taste the sweet, clean air of Nirn, feel the warmth of the sunlight and the breeze stirring his robes. And somewhere out there, his soulmate waited, feeling those same things. They would never know the horrors of Apocrypha, save in tales he told them to warn them away from the Daedric Prince who ruled it.

Yet he couldn’t help but be curious.

Miraak started digging into the records about this new Dragonborn, learning what he could from afar (and from up close, when he stole her kills). Copies of journals, scraps, discarded notes; all painted a picture of a strong woman who was trying to do right by the world and its people even as she pursued her own agenda.

But then.

Then.

He saw his soulmate’s name, all four words, put down in print for the first time.

That made him stop, go back, and reread the paragraph about the most recent Thane of Whiterun. Then he started laughing. Hysterically. Helplessly.

The Dragonborn.

His soulmate was the Dragonborn, and he couldn’t help but laugh, laugh until he cried, tears running down his face behind his mask, fingers clutching at one book of millions in the dark halls of Apocrypha.

* * *

The battle at the Summit was _ferociously_ hard-fought, and if the other Dragonborn knew she was his soulmate, she gave no visible sign, her face concealed by Konahrik’s mask.

She was _glorious_ in battle. Though their sword styles were different, he was still hard-pressed to score hits on her, his strength matched by her speed, and more often than not, she matched his blows with her own. Her spellwork was nearly as good, though he saw only a limited slice of it: good with Restoration, and she kept hitting him with Shock spells to try to drain his magicka.

And her Voice – she only knew a few Shouts, and pieces of Shouts, but her Voice was strong and promised to get stronger.

She was everything he’d hoped she’d be.

Miraak heard her laugh more than once during their battle, and after the first time, he realized he was grinning widely behind his mask. Their blood was up, his like it hadn’t been in millennia, lust for violence pounding hard in his heart. His dragon blood and soul left no room for softness in this fight, no room for pulled punches or shallow cuts, not even against his soulmate, and he could tell she felt the same.

But then.

Then.

_“Did you think to escape me, Miraak?!”_

He heard the soft _boom_ and the rush of wind as his soul was ripped from his body, and the last thing he saw was angry blue eyes gazing at Hermaeus Mora’s tentacle from behind Konahrik’s golden mask.

Soulmate indeed.

* * *

But then.

_Then._

_“SLEN TIID VO!”_

And Miraak opened his eyes to blue sky.


	2. Chasing Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CANT STOP WONT STOP

She was one of the unlucky ones.

She had an active soul mark, a bright, cheerful blue to signal her soulmate was very much alive, but no one could read the script the name was written in, strange marks almost like scratches across her forearm.

It was short, at least: one word, four letters, twelve scratches on her skin. But that made it unusual, too; Altmer society normally gave multiply names to make differentiation easier. She herself had four names but only one that mattered: “Amlugdaril,” “dragon-slayer.” Her parents quietly resisted the Thalmor, and hoped that by giving her such a name, this “dragon” _would_ be slain.

Futile? Probably. But hope was tenacious.

Amlugdaril spent most of her time reading, trying to figure out what her soulmate’s name was. (She was also avoiding the other children, who mocked her for her single name. Adults looked down on her, too, because her soulmate obviously wasn’t an Altmer and that made her _lesser_ than her “true-breeding” peers.) But no matter how many languages she learned, she couldn’t find the one that matched.

* * *

She could have been a good diplomat. She knew every major dialect from the Summerset Isle to Morrowind, and High Rock to Black Marsh. She had read more books than most Altmer ten times her age. She knew more about etiquette, politics, history, science, and art than all her cousins combined. But her soulmate left her an outcast.

She joined the Thieves Guild instead. Although she _could_ kill, she didn’t have a taste for it the same way the Morag Tong and the Dark Brotherhood did, and items stolen could be replaced. Lives could not.

That came in handy when she was forced to barter her way into passage to Cyrodiil after her parents were betrayed, and murdered by the Thalmor. The Imperial City was good for her and the local chapter of the Guild; a lot of trade went through it, a lot of rich people, which led to a rich Guild.

Then the Great War happened. The Imperial army was routed, Cyrodill sacked, and Amlugdaril knew she couldn’t stay. She was wanted by the Thalmor for treason, a death sentence even though she’d never actually _done_ anything, and so she fled. She made her way out to the countryside to set up a farm and serve as a fence and safehouse for active members.

And someone sold her out.

* * *

Skyrim was supposed to be a new beginning. She’s been given a letter of acknowledgement to get her in with the Skyrim chapter and enough gold to reach them even if it took a year (the guildmaster of Cyrodiil owed her a life-debt after she quite literally snatched him from the executioner’s block and Thalmor “justice”).

But then she got caught up in a fight between Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers, and then it was Helgen and the headsman.

And Alduin. Divines, if he had been even a _minute_ slower…

But he wasn’t, and she was alive.

Initially she hadn’t wanted anything to do with the “Dragonborn” nonsense – but then on her way to Riften, she stumbled across a farm.

It had been put to the torch, and not by men or mer, the corpses of the family cooked in the act of running away from the shell that had been their home. Fire still flickered within.

Amlugdaril stood there and stared for a long time. Then she said, “Oblivion take it all,” and turned around.

* * *

Fighting Alduin had been a disaster, even with Dragonrend and all her allies. They had moved together with the ease of a well-oiled Dwemer Centurion; even Paarthurnax had found his place. But it wasn’t enough; a vampire, an assassin (in training), two werewolves, and a Dragonborn thief weren’t enough to take down the World-Eater.

And then there were the cultists waiting for them in Ivarstead, and Solstheim across the sea, and _Miraak._

Fucking _Miraak._

As if she didn’t have enough problems already.

But she encountered a familiar word (four letters, twelve scratches) on a Word Wall in the depths of his temple. At least it was a real word, even if she still didn’t know what it meant.

But then there came the Skaal, and Stalhrim, and Tharstan…

And Vahlok’s tomb. Three Word Walls, and the second had what she wanted. She waved the translator over and pointed to the word she wanted, asking him what it said. Tharstan squinted at it and said, “Allegiance-Guide.

“Miraak.”

Amlugdaril had stared, then asked him if he was sure, then laughed – hysterically, helplessly – until she cried, crouched in front of a Word Wall in the tomb of a Dragon Priest.

* * *

Her allies – her _friends_ – were  pissed, ready to storm the realm of the Divines to demand a change, or Apocrypha itself to beat the shit out of Miraak with their own hands.

But in the end, she arrived at the Summit of Apocrypha alone.

Her fight with Miraak was _beyond_ magnificent, and there were times she couldn’t help but laugh in delight. _Finally_ , someone who could meet her weapons with their own, who could strike and shoot and shock and Shout with an intensity to match her. Even though the Dragon Priest didn’t make any sounds of his own, she could read his fierce joy in the way he moved, struck, spelled.

They were denied a true end to their battle. Hermaeus Mora interceded, and Amlugdaril’s fury burned so hot that it circled back around to icy cold as Miraak’s soul rushed out of his body and into her own. Her arm felt like it had been sliced open, but no Restoration spell could heal this wound.

She refused the Daedric Prince again even as she claimed her soulmate’s remains and gear and packed it all away.

Then she returned to Solstheim and marched straight for Raven Rock, barely stopping long enough to say goodbye to the Skaal. She didn’t break down, not there or on the ship back to Skyrim, though she did set the Priest’s grinning skull on the pillow next to her and fell asleep looking at it on many a night.

When they docked, she went straight to Ivarstead, High Hrothgar, the Throat of the World, before nearly throwing herself down in front of Paarthurnax and saying, under no uncertain terms, “I need to learn the Shout Alduin uses to revive the other dragons.”

* * *

It took weeks. Weeks of meditating on her own body and what it was to exist within it, of the flow of time and what it did to said body, on what it would be to undo those things. Weeks of careful, restless journeys slaying dragons before nearly sprinting the whole way back to the monastery where Miraak’s bones were carefully kept.

Weeks of tests on bandits and necromancers and even one notable dragon, before Amlugdaril felt she was ready.

She laid every bone out in its place on a stone slab at the Summit of the Throat, careful not to let even one fall or get carried away by the wind. When the skeleton was whole but loose, she stepped back and gathered herself.

_“SLEN TIID VO!”_

And then fire licked over his bones, leaving living, breathing flesh in its place, even as his soul rushed out of her body and back into his own.

Her arm tingled, then burned.


	3. Darkness Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my miraak](https://www.flickr.com/photos/136234383@N06/22036628551) but with longer hair

For a moment, Miraak was afraid of the flat, alien sky above him, wisps of white drifting across it. Then he remembered that this was the color the sky was _supposed_ to be, not green clouds and tentacles and eyes. This was Mundus, Nirn, Tamriel. This was _home_ , not the horrors of Oblivion.

_“You’re awake at last.”_

The Dragon Priest sat up sharply and looked around. He was on an island of snow and stone in the middle of the sky – no, no, the summit of a mountain. It had to be the _Monahven_ ; no other mountain was so high that no others could be seen, that the air was so thin.

There was a dragon perched atop a blank Word Wall not too far away. He briefly considered using Bend Will, then decided against it. He felt weak and shaky and cold, even though someone had gone through the trouble of wrapping him in a think cloak to stave off the wind. If he missed or failed, he wasn’t up for a fight.

Not yet.

 _“Greetings,”_ he replied in _dovahzul_ , _“Who are you?”_

_“I am Paarthurnax.”_

Miraak jolted a little at that. _“You were Alduin’s lieutenant.”_

 _“I was. So were you, in a way, and both of us rebelled against his lordship.”_ Paarthurnax hummed softly. _“The Dragonborn was worried when you did not wake right away. I convinced her to go get you some food. She should be back shortly.”_

Miraak nodded in acknowledgement and staggered to his feet, wobbling about on watery legs. He was careful to stay away from the edges, but he couldn’t resist looking out over the world.

Skyrim had changed greatly since he had seen her last. The holds called Eastmarch and the Rift were spread out before him, richly gold and green in the sunlight, rivers gleaming as they flowed, creatures bounding through the trees.

Miraak squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled shakily, then became aware of a familiar presence drawing near. He turned in time to see the other _Dovahkiin_ reach the summit, tailed by four strangers – two men in matching armor, brothers by their looks; a Dunmer clad head-to-toe in black and red armor; and a vampiress in a blackout cloak.

The strangers eyed him suspiciously, but the Dragonborn came right over, spread out a blanket and some furs in the shadow of the Word Wall, and unpacked the food she’d been carrying. It was simple fare, loaves of bread, wedges of cheese, strips of jerky, and some kind of herb butter in a little stone tub, but it looked better than anything he’d seen in four millennia.

Miraak hesitated, unsure what the protocol was here, and exchanged a glance with Paarthurnax. The dragon gave him the equivalent of a smile and a shrug. Then the Priest walked over and warily sank down in the space left open for him, pleased he hadn’t stumbled or tripped.

The Dragonborn removed her mask. Her hair was long and silvery, her skin a pale gold, which made her blue eyes seem all the more vivid. With an eye color like that, she had to have some Nordic blood in there somewhere. Otherwise she was purely Altmer, elegance and grace with an undercurrent of draconic violence.

He approved, and removed his own mask even though he was unsure what he looked like after so many years in Apocrypha. She didn’t seem horrified, and no one else reacted negatively, so he assumed the answer was “okay” and called it a victory. He peeled off his gloves.

The bread was warm and thick in his hands. He took a moment to just look at it and smell and feel it – warm, crisp golden brown and distinctly wheaty – before tearing off a piece and putting it in his mouth. It tasted just as good, and he forced himself to chew slowly despite the sudden sharp stab of hunger in his gut.

His soulmate noticed, and offered him the herb butter. “How long were you trapped in Apocrypha?”

Her voice was smooth and lyrical; she made even the Oblivion Realm’s name sound beautiful. Miraak did some quick mental math, then said, “About forty-one hundred years.”

One of the brothers visibly gaped at him, while the other nearly spat out his mouthful of mead. The vampiress looked oddly sympathetic, and the Dunmer looked shocked in her own way, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline before her face went blank.

“By Talos,” said the longer-haired brother after he managed to swallow without choking, “I guess I can understand you being desperate to escape, then. Farkas.” He held out a hand.

The Dragon Priest shook it. “Miraak, but I suppose you knew that already.”

His brother introduced himself as Vilkas. The vampiress was Serana. The Dunmer was Tindala Hlenhis. And his soulmate-

“Amlugdaril Astarume Aedore Anaedaerith.”

“Your parents were big fans of alliteration, I see.”

She snorted and smiled, and was _radiant_.

* * *

High Hrothgar was disturbingly like Apocrypha with its walls, damp and cold. Miraak woke several times during the night, convinced he was still in Oblivion and Hermaeus Mora was playing with him, indulging his desire to be free before yanking him back into that green hell.

Amlugdaril seemed to sense it, and touched him skin to skin in reassurance. The first time she did it he nearly stabbed her, still caught in the grips of a nightmare, but she was able to catch his wrist before the blade made contact. After the third time, she dragged her blankets over and whispered, “Scoot over,” before sliding in next to him and pulling the blankets over them both.

They both slept through the night after that.

Wisely, no one said anything.

* * *

Bromjunaar – Labyrinthian – was a ruin. Miraak had known about it being abandoned, read about the slow exodus, but it was another thing entirely to see the place desolate with his own eyes.

He noticed Amlugdaril’s questioning look, even from behind Konahrik, and said, “All Dragon Priests were trained here. When _I_ was trained here, these streets were packed with people at nearly all hours, and most trade passed through here. Silks and spices and spells…” He ran a hand over a low wall, brushing off some snow. “Now it’s just dust and echoes.”

Without even looking, he shot an ice spear back through the skull of a frost troll charging him from behind. “And trolls. Because _Divines forbid_ I forget _them_.”

* * *

“Look at them _go_.”

Neither Dragonborn appeared aware of the crowd they had attracted, instead focused entirely on each other. They had started off with just a simple spar to help Miraak adjust to being back on Nirn, but it had escalated quickly into a resumption of their interrupted battle in Oblivion. Civilians, city guards, and soldiers alike had all climbed to the battlements of Castle Dour to look down on the fight takin place in its only ward. Even General Tulius and Legate Rikke had come out of the war room to watch.

“And ‘Daril thought she didn’t have the makings of an assassin.”

“Only when her blood is up, ‘Dala. And it only gets _this_ high with _him_.”

The fight lasted for nearly an hour, their dragon souls giving them inhuman stamina. But their flesh gave out before the fight in them did, both of them staggering back away from each other after one last, fierce clash. Miraak kept his feet by leaning heavily on his staff, but Amlugdaril recovered faster. Then they both saluted one another with their weapons – only to nearly jump out of their skins when the crowd cheered – screaming and applauding.

Miraak flinched at all the noise and people; he was still trying to adjust after so long alone in Oblivion. Amlugdaril noticed, and signaled her friends before guiding the Dragon Priest away to get cleaned up.

* * *

“We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.”

“I don’t think it’ll matter if we’re responsible adults if we don’t stop Alduin from eating everything he claps eyes on,” Amlugdaril replied as she rubbed her hair dry.

“Mm.” Miraak was more than half way asleep, the master bed of Proudspire Manor being the most comfortable thing he’d ever slept on.

“Go to sleep, idiot.”

“You’re my soulmate,” the Dragon Priest slurred, “If I’m the idiot, what does that say about you?”

“That we can be foolish together. Go to sleep.”


	4. Beyond Death

Miraak went first, as she knew he must.

It might have been an accident, but he had waited more than four thousand years for her in the warped halls of an Oblivion Realm. He would not have survived waiting for her again, or waiting to grow old and die – or, rather, the world would not have survived _him_. A holdover from Hermaeus Mora or not, he had a bad habit of playing fast and loose with morality, even though there were lines even he wouldn’t cross.

Although it had taken some convincing – actual _convincing_ , since she wouldn’t let Miraak use Bend Will on him – Odahviing had carried them both to Skuldafn, and Sovngarde. As a High Elf, Amlugdaril had felt decidedly _odd_ about arriving in the _Nordic_ afterlife, but she had pushed past it; defeating Alduin had been more important.

Gormlaith, Hakon, and Feldir had been – well, _most displeased_ would be an understatement – to see Miraak approaching on her heels in Shor’s Hall. There had actually been a brief scuffle between Gormlaith and the Dragon Priest, but when he accused them of wanting to abuse his powers and then betray him, none of them had actually denied it.

Which had made Amlugdaril see red, but in the end, they all went out to face Alduin together regardless.

And she and Miraak returned to Nirn in triumph.

They did eventually do the “responsible adult” thing and talk about their bond. During a spar. That evolved into a fight like at Castle Dour, that led to the conception of their first child.

First of six, all of them Dragonborn like their parents before them. As Amlugdaril put it once, “Never let it be said that Miraak’s time in Apocrypha negatively affected his performance.”

“I didn’t need to know that!” Farkas had protested.

“Yes, you did,” she had laughed.

(Their third child had been conceived when she learned Miraak had murdered the last of the Blades for threatening Paarthurnax, or “Grandfather Wing” as their children called him. The fifth was a result of her discovering that he’d been quietly using Bend Will on hundreds of Thalmor agents they’d encountered.)

(Fast and loose with morality, indeed.)

Together with their friends and allies, they’d smashed the Stormcloak rebellion, siding with the Empire against them _and_ the Thalmor.

A second Great War came, as they knew it would, and the two Dragonborn became the Empire’s greatest and most terrifying assets.

This time, the Aldmeri Dominion did not win. Miraak absolutely used and abused Bend Will and Dragon Aspect, and cast Battle Fury on entire legions placed under his command. Aura Whisper and Become Ethereal suited Amlugdaril’s sneak-thief spying more, but Dragon Aspect suited her, too.

(Their last child was born nine months to the day after the peace treaty was signed, and the White-Gold Concordat ripped to shreds.)

* * *

Miraak went first, as she knew he must.

Powerful Dragon Priest or no, he was still a Nord, a man, and so he still aged faster than her. But no matter what it took, he kept his body strong and fit for as long as possible.

Strong enough and fit enough that when news came of a pack of dragons terrorizing Bruma in Cyrodiil while Amlugdaril was away, he didn’t even hesitate before donning his armor and heading out to the Pale Pass.

He slew them all… but didn’t make it home.

His body was recovered and laid in state in the Temple of the One, where Amlugdaril sat vigil for three days and nights, her soulmark slowly weeping blood. Then she took him back to Skyrim, and buried him in secret somewhere on the _Monahven_. The only people she told were their children, so that when her time came she could be laid to rest beside him.

And then, she carried on.

* * *

Miraak went first, as she knew he must.

But she lived long enough to see their eldest son adopted as heir, and eventually sit the Ruby Throne.

And then it was her turn.

* * *

Familiar steps resolved under her feet, statues and rock walls around her, and for a moment she blinked in surprise. Even though she had refused him more than once, didn’t Hermaeus Mora have some claim on her soul? As one of her Nightingales, didn’t _Nocturnal_? And she was a Dragonborn, yes, but she was also a _High Elf._

What was she doing in Sovngarde? _Again?_

Kodlak was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, smiling, Farkas and Vilkas at his sides. She descended to meet them. Their smiles widened, and Vilkas jerked his head back toward Shor’s Hall.

Miraak was waiting for her in front of the Whalebone Bridge, feet planted, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re late.”

“Well _excuse me_ ,” she grinned, “I wasn’t aware I had a _deadline_ for _dying._ ”

He wasn’t the only one waiting for her, but he was the only one who really mattered. Still, she glanced at Tsun to one side, who smiled and nodded once.

As one, both Dragonborn drew their swords and saluted one another.

And then laughing, they lunged.


End file.
